


Kiss It Better or Worse

by MonsterTesk



Series: Apparel [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, sort of h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterTesk/pseuds/MonsterTesk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is injured. Stiles is pissed. The couch is involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss It Better or Worse

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even fucking know. I just felt like it.

“How’s that?” Stiles asks as he lowers Chris’ foot onto the pillow he placed on the coffee table. Chris sighs and leans back, the pain in his ankle slightly abated for now.

“Good, thanks.”

Stiles nods and limps his way around the coffee table, back to his spread of books and papers. He picks up his laptop and starts tapping away, stopping every few minutes to riffle through his notes or turn a page in one of the books. Chris sits quietly and watches the movie Stiles put on for him and becomes increasingly worried. Stiles is never this silent, not even when he’s doing homework; he hums, taps his pen, talks to the articles he’s reading, and throws pithy comments over his shoulder to Chris.

“The new Q is kinda cute,” Chris says, knowing that on most days that the comment would be enough to get Stiles talking. Stiles just hums his agreement and scribbles in the margins of one of his textbooks.

“They sure do like to show Bond topless. Not that I’m complaining…”

Stiles doesn’t even say anything to that, just flips to a new page in the book he has open over his laptop, a frown on his face. Chris girds himself, time for the big guns.

“That’s a nice Ferrari.”

Stiles throws his pen down onto the coffee table, puts his laptop next to it and turns to glare at Chris. Success. If ogling the men on TV doesn’t work, saying something wrong about the cars always does. Stiles is too much of a grease monkey to let that slide.

“That piece of beauty on screen is a nineteen-sixty-four Aston Martin DB5 and _it eats Ferraris for breakfast.”_

Stiles angrily flips the book in his lap shut. Chris is taken aback. He didn’t know Stiles is so mad and he doesn’t know why.

“Congratulations, your ploy worked,” Stiles says as he reaches for his cane. Chris’ hand shoots out faster than it should, jarring his bruised ribs, in his attempt to grab Stiles’ arm.

“Are you mad at me?”

Stiles’ forearm goes tense in Chris’ hand and Stiles looks away from Chris.

“No.”

Chris waits. Stiles sighs.

“Yes, yes I am.”

Chris loosens his grip, sliding his hand down to tangle his fingers with Stiles. He will never get over how wonderful it feels to hold Stiles’ hand or how silly such a reaction to something so simple is.

“Why?” Chris asks softly.

Stiles’ fingers tighten around Chris’ hand almost, but not quite, hard enough to hurt.

“Nothing. Just leave it alone.”

“No, I want to know what I did.”

“Chris—just don’t, OK? It’s nothing.”

Chris frowns and tugs on Stiles’ hand but Stiles doesn’t budge, doesn’t look at Chris, just keeps staring down at the book in his lap.

“Tell me, please? I want to know what I did.”

Stiles looks sideways at Chris, eyes dark and the corners of his mouth turned down.

“Fine. You were stupid. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Chris raises Stiles’ hand to his mouth and kisses it.

“What doesn’t make any sense? You’re worrying me, baby.”

Stiles sighs and shakes his hand out of Chris’ grip. Something explodes on the TV screen but Chris is more interested in the way the red light casts shadows on Stiles’ face.

“You got hurt and I’m mad at you because of it. It’s stupid. You were stupid and careless and now you have to walk with crutches and you make these little hurt noises when you bend over. It’s not OK, alright?” Stiles rants and pokes Chris hard in the chest. Chris winces. His chest is still sore.

“See? That right there, that’s what I’m talking about! I can’t touch you without you wincing or making that ‘I’m a good trooper, I keep my pain to myself’ face. You’re not supposed to get hurt. You’re supposed to be smart and cautious and one step ahead of the big bads and I’m supposed to be the dumb one that gets hurt or falls down a flight of stairs and has to use crutches and have bandages around my ribs, not you.”

“Stiles, I—”

“No, don’t. It’s stupid and irrational, I know that but—”

“Stiles!”

Stiles takes a big breath and closes his mouth with a clack. Chris reaches out and rubs his hand against Stiles’ left thigh. Stiles slumps.

“You remember that time you nearly broke your arm trying to fight that selkie and almost drowned?”

Stiles nods and croaks out a, “Yeah.”

“I was so mad at you for that. You didn’t wait for anyone else to come, just plodded into the water after the thing and nearly died. I had to stand there and watch Scott do CPR on you and I was pissed. I wanted to yell at you and throw things. I wanted to swim after that fucking selkie and kill it and everything it held dear then come back and yell at you some more.”

Stiles smiles wanly, rubbing at the two-day’s stubble on his face.

“Yeah, that was, that was pretty stupid of me.”

“It was incredibly stupid.”

“But you didn’t yell at me,” Stiles says, eyes sliding to Chris’. Chris squeezes Stiles’ thigh, enjoying the feel of the strong muscles there even at a time like this. Chris could totally do with some angry sex right now but he doubts that’s what’s on Stiles’ mind. But it could be.

“No, I yelled at Derek then took you home.”

Stiles snickers.

“Well, not directly home. First we stopped at that rest spot and— _Oh my werewolfy gods,_ that was I’m-so-pissed-at-you-I-could-punch-trees car sex!”

He points an accusing finger at Chris. Chris just squeezes Stiles’ thigh again and smiles. He loves this ridiculous man.

“You are such a shit,” Stiles hisses, mouth trying to smile and frown at the same time.

Chris leans over as much as he can, letting his eyes drop to Stiles’ mouth before moving them back up to look him in the eyes.

“I’m sorry I got myself hurt; I didn’t mean to worry you like that. Let me make it up to you?”

Stiles’ lips part, his pink tongue peaking out briefly to wet them, eyes trailing down from Chris’ face. He leans forward and presses his forehead against Chris’.

“You’re hurt,” Stiles whispers. “I don’t wanna hurt you more.”

Chris slides his hand down Stiles’ thigh and fingers the bend in his knee. It’s strategic; Chris knows that Stiles loves it when Chris touches there.

“It’s OK, you won’t. I’ll do whatever you want, baby.”

Stiles shivers, shakes his head.

“You want me to suck you off? I’d love to. I haven’t had your cock in my mouth in so long, I miss it.”

Stiles says nothing. Chris trails his fingers along the inseam of Stiles’ jeans, slowly working his way up.

“Would you prefer to fuck me? I could ride you right here on the couch,” Chris says, passing his thumb lightly over Stiles’ groin while his fingers curl into the waistband of his pants. Stiles is breathing slowly but heavily, bottom lip sucked into his mouth where Chris knows he’s teething at it. “You know how much I love being fucked.”

Stiles says nothing, just stays as still as he can, hands dropped onto the couch cushions. Chris ducks his head, kisses that spot right behind the hinge of Stiles’ jaw, a spark of inspiration coming to him from how still Stiles is.

“Or would you rather I fuck you?” Chris asks as he mouths along Stiles’ neck. Stiles’ head lolls back and to the side while his fingers curl into the material of the couch. Chris sucks on Stiles’ neck, nosing aside his T-shirt to leave a small hickey where Stiles could cover it up if he wanted to.

“No,” Stiles says in a shaky voice and Chris stops, heart dropping into his stomach. He removes his mouth and hand from Stiles and tries to ignore the way Stiles’ hips move up to follow his hand.

“Stiles, if—”

Stiles snaps his eyes open and reaches out his right arm. He cups Chris’ dick through his jeans, this determined look that half crosses into anger on his face making his jaw twitch.

“I want to kiss it better,” Stiles hisses at him, grinding his palm down. Chris grunts, thighs spreading of their own volition. “And later, when you’re feeling up to it, you’re going to fuck me over the back of the couch.”

Chris huffs and that hurts, his ribs screaming at him.

“Make, make it the hood of your Jeep and we’ve got a deal.”

Stiles grins viciously, removing his hand from Chris’ groin to shove the books and papers on the couch onto the floor. Chris nearly whines at the loss of contact but keeps it to himself, hands quickly moving to undo his fly. Stiles smirks.

“Eager much?”

Chris nods.

“Good,” Stiles says before tugging on Chris, pushing and pulling until Chris has his back against the arm of the couch, one leg bent behind Stiles’ back, the other stretched out and resting across Stiles’ lap and away from accidentally getting bumped.

Chris’ toes curl when Stiles licks him through his underwear, hands moving on their own to lightly rest on Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles takes his time, worming his hand into Chris’ clothes to pull his cock out, stopping frequently to mouth him through the material.

It feels like a small age has passed by the time he feels breath on the head of his dick.

“I just want you to know that this is all you get before you’re good enough to walk on your own; that if you want to fuck, you’ll just have to settle for coming in my mouth,” Stiles murmurs before sucking Chris between those wonderful lips and Chris can totally live with that.

Chris stops breathing for a little while, fingers curled into the meat of Stiles’ shoulders, eyes fixed on where his cock disappears into Stiles’ mouth. He’s beautiful, absolutely gorgeous. The light from the TV plays across his face, making his eyelashes dark smudges under his closed eyes, his lips glisten with spit, and the hollows in his cheeks stand out starkly.

Stiles bobs his head and Chris remembers to exhale, the air leaving his lungs is painful but it’s nothing compared to the feel of Stiles’ tongue convulsing against the underside of his dick while he sucks. Chris’ hips move in little rolls until Stiles plants his hands on them. Then they try to jerk against the weight holding them down. Stiles shifts to hold Chris in place better while he mouths down the side of Chris’ dick except that in moving his dick grazes against Chris’ calf, hard and warm through his jeans and Chris _wants._

Wants Stiles to spread his legs and fuck him on the couch, wants to feel Stiles’ flat stomach jerk as he thrusts, wants to feel Stiles press him into the couch cushions and plow into him hard and fast, wants to hear Stiles utter dirty things and make Chris beg for harder and faster until he can’t think past the weight on top of him and the cock inside of him.

Stiles swallows him down and Chris comes thinking about Stiles bouncing on his dick, head thrown back in ecstasy while he palms his own dick and moans Chris’ name.

Chris lays there, panting, unable to move due to sheer exhaustion as Stiles wedges his hand between Chris’ leg and his crotch to squeeze his dick through his jeans. Stiles groans.

“I am going to do everything in my power over the next two weeks to torture you,” Stiles says as he rubs himself, hips rolling.

Chris watches, completely sure he’s not going to survive it.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be super depressing and shit but then I was like "Fuck that, oral sex FTW."


End file.
